A World Elsewhere (28 page)

He wondered what she would do if he reached out and took her hands.

“I’ve kept a journal for years,” she said.

“Then you’re a real writer,” he said.

“I’ve never thought that way about writing, as something I could make a career of or satisfy my ambition with. It seems that all I ever do is put things into words. I’m trying to make a record of a largely uneventful life.”

“Whereas I am burning the record of a
very
eventful life.”

“You know,” she said, “sometimes, when I look at a person, it is as if I am not with them but remembering being with them, remembering from a time so far removed that the memory seems to have no context and I see the person as they are, free of all connection with time and place and circumstance. Have you ever felt that way?”

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. And he was suddenly looking back at both of them from a time when not only this moment, but all the moments of their lives, had passed. She looked at him. He was filled with a piteous tenderness and love for the soul he saw, knowing that this might be as clear a glimpse of it as he would ever have. His eyes welled up with tears. He reached out, pushed her hair back behind her ear and drew the tips of his fingers across her cheek. She edged forward in her chair, took his face in both her hands and kissed him.

Gaelic. “God is gracious.”

“Sedgewick told Mother you’re having nightmares,” Goddie said.

Deacon nodded. He glanced at Miss Esse, who seemed lost in thought.

“So am I.”

“No, you’re not,” Deacon said.

“Everyone has nightmares, not just you.”

Deacon shrugged.

“Have you ever seen a dead person?”

“No. Have you?”

“No. What about your parents?”

“I know where my mother is. Her remains.”

“Mother says it’s just as well she’s gone, poor thing. She says she was probably more dead than alive.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

Goddie began to cry. “I know. I’m sorry. Mother says Father’s the reason I can’t help saying things. I get mean when I’m afraid or when I’m sad. I don’t know why. I’m sorry you’re so sad.”

“Does your mother ever say nice things?”

Goddie opened her mouth as if she might scream.

“Mother is nicer than anyone. She sits with me when I can’t sleep. Or she lets me sleep with her. And she gives me hugs and kisses all the time and calls me her one and only darling child. She lets me brush her hair and she brushes mine and she says that we’re best friends and that she doesn’t love anyone as much as she loves me. I’d rather have her than Landish. Mother says there’s not a drop of his blood in your veins so Mother says almost anyone could mean as much to Landish as you do. She says one day Landish will just up and leave. You’ll wake up in the morning and he won’t be there and that’s the last you’ll see of Landish Druken.”

Miss Esse slapped the table. “Goddie! You really mustn’t say such things!”

Deacon began to cry. Goddie pushed back her chair, stared at him, then ran to him and put her arms around his neck and her cheek against his head. “Please forgive me, Deacon,” she said. “Please, please, please. I wish you had good dreams.” She kissed him repeatedly on top of his head, which soon felt wet. Then she let him go and ran, still streaming tears, from the dining room, barely dodging a servant who was entering, tray-encumbered, from the other side.

Van had told him that two famous writers had been guests at Vanderland for the past few months and were soon to leave. In the Smoker that evening, Landish, standing and staring into the leaping fire, hoped that Deacon and the Blokes didn’t notice his flushed complexion or the trembling of his hands, in which he held a glass of brandy and a cigar.

“Henry James and Edith Wharton,” he said. “I’ve never heard of Edith Wharton.”

“Henry James?”
Gough said, looking about at the others. “Can you imagine, gentlemen? To think that we are sleeping under the same roof as such a great writer. Large though the roof might be.”

“In fact, Van has invited me to meet both Mr. James and Mrs. Wharton in the salon after dinner tomorrow evening. Deacon is invited as well.”

Gough’s face broke into a wide smile.

“I take it that the rest of us are not invited,” Sedgewick said. “What’s the point of inviting the boy? I dare say I’ve read more Henry James than he has.”

“Henry James is perhaps the greatest living writer, Deacon,” Gough said. “Some think perhaps the greatest novelist who ever lived. How lucky, Landish. The first fellow writer you meet will be Henry James.”

“We’re fellow bi-peds,” Landish said. “That’s about as much as we have in common. Perhaps as much as we’ll ever have in common.”

“We’ll have to wear our best clothes, Deacon.” Landish grinned at him. But Deacon, sitting on the sofa, did not look particularly happy, especially since Landish by this time most nights was decks awash.

Landish took Deacon’s hand as the butler led them from The Blokes to the salon. Deacon stood as straight as the butler and tried to walk like him but Landish pulled his hand to make him stop.

The two house guests were seated flanking the fire, Gertrude on Edith Wharton’s left and Van to the right of Henry James who was sitting with one foot, its shoe removed and wearing what looked to be several heavy socks, resting on a cushioned stool beside the fire.

“A bout of gout,” Henry James said, glancing at them over his upraised glass of brandy. Deacon was surprised to see Goddie sitting beside her mother. She smiled at him as if to promise she would later share a joke with him about the foolishness of the evening.

“Mr. Landish Druken,” Van said. “And his charge, Deacon Carson Druken. Mrs. Edith Wharton and Mr. Henry James.” Edith Wharton, who wore a dress of such dark blue that Landish at first took it to be black and her to be a widow, gave him her hand when he extended his with a quick half bow that he was certain looked ridiculous, and said that he was pleased to meet her. “I’m very pleased to meet
you
, Mr. Druken,” she said. Henry James kept both hands closed about his glass.

“It’s an honour to meet you both,” Landish said, awkwardly aware of his bulk.

The first thing Deacon noticed about Mr. Henry James was that he had a bushy beard that was all of one piece with long, wide sideburns. Then Edith Wharton, her dress rustling, rose and crouched down to his height, taking both his hands. “Hello, Deacon Carson Druken,” she said, and Deacon suppressed an urge to throw his arms around her neck. “Come sit by me”—standing up, she guided him towards the fire, her hand on his back—“Mr. Vanderluyden tells me that you’re a very, very bright boy.”

“I suppose he has derived
some
benefit from his proximity to Godwin,” said Mrs. Vanderluyden.

“You read a lot don’t you, Deacon?” Mrs. Wharton said.

“I’m going to read every book in the library.”

“All twenty-five thousand of them?” She laughed and cupped his face with both her hands. Deacon nodded. “I still read a lot,” she said, “but oddly I don’t enjoy it quite as much as I did before I became a writer.”

“Godwin reads voraciously,” said Mrs. Vanderluyden.

“So you tutor Godwin?” Henry James addressed Landish.

“I am one of several who do.” Landish took a brandy from a tray extended to him by the servant.

“Landish is an aspiring writer,” Van said.

“One either is or is not a writer,” Henry James said. “You can aspire until you expire, it won’t make any difference. Tutors should toot and writers should write. I had many tutors as a child. Torturers I called
them. But I managed to endure them. And succeed in spite of them. As did my dear friend, Mrs. Wharton. I had so many I can’t remember most of them. My family travelled a lot—London, Paris, Geneva, Bonn—as did yours, Edith. You too have been everywhere. Were you tutored, Mr. Druken?”

“No,” Landish said. “Not in the way that you mean.”

James gave him such a frankly appraising look that Landish felt himself blush. He remembered Van’s dream at Princeton of inviting world-famous writers to his great house among whom Landish, he had promised, would hold court.

“You’re a man of few words, Mr. Druken. In every sense of the expression it would seem.”

Van laughed and turned to Landish. “I told Henry that you burn everything you write.”

“Yes, it’s true. I’ve so far burned every word of the book I’m writing.”

“In London,” Van said, “Henry was invited to dinner at a different house every night for a year. His reputation preceded him.”

“I find that I get invited to dinner parties more often when my reputation has not preceded me,” Landish said.

“Interesting. Among whom do you believe yourself to have a reputation?” James asked.

Deacon saw a drop of sweat run down Landish’s face and into his beard. “Mr. James,” Landish said. “Do you mind my asking if you’re working on a new book?”

“A book of mine which I’ve called
The Turn of the Screw
was recently published. There are characters in it who resemble Godwin and this boy of yours.”

“Henry, you’re
wicked,”
Mrs. Wharton said.

He prodded his gouty foot with the cane. “I didn’t burn a word of it. The
New York Times
said of it, and I quote: ‘It is a deliberate, powerful and horribly successful study of the magic of evil. The manner is always graceful and scrupulously polite.’ ”

Edith Wharton was holding Deacon’s hand. “What you need is a wife, Henry,” she said. “You have too much free time.
None
of us can keep up with you.”

James threw back his head and laughed loudly, waving his hand at her as if to ward her off. “I am not merely a confirmed bachelor, Mr. Druken. I am a professed celibate. A virgin, in fact.”

“What’s a virgin?” Goddie’s high voice piped up. She jumped about on her chair to face her mother.

“A paradox,” Landish said. “Someone who on the one hand has never had any and on the other keeps it all to himself.”

“How vulgar,” Gertrude said.

James ignored her. “But one can know women without having known a woman. I am a virgin who writes frequently about women.”

Landish said, “My apologies. I merely spoke in a spirit of repartee.”

“Indeed you did,” said Edith Wharton, patting Deacon’s back as if the witticism had been his.

“Mrs. Wharton is working on what I am sure will be a wonderful book called
The House of Mirth,”
Van interposed.

“I grew up in a house in which there was a dearth of mirth,” Landish said.

“As there is in Lily Bart’s home too,” she replied. “I hope you will read my book. I’m not sure when it will be finished and published, but when it is I will send you a copy. And sign it for you.”

“Thank you.” Landish’s voice quavered, so grateful was he for her kindness.

“Mr. Druken,” James said, “has inspired me to write a book called
The House of Girth.”

Edith Wharton exclaimed, “I declare a ceasefire.”

“Van,” James said. “I have to tell you this house is an absurdity. It is like some immense, gorgeous practical joke. What in God’s name are your family and it doing out here in this irretrievable, niggery wilderness?”

It was impossible for anyone in the room to ignore the look of devastation on Van’s face as Gertrude laughed.

“That is a question that I have often asked my husband.”

“The whole place is based on a fundamental ignorance of comfort. And such gaudy desolation, Van. Really, what is the
point?
Edith has a wonderful estate, one she also designed herself and caused to be built. The Mount. I’ve stayed there many times. I very much prefer it to here.”

“Don’t be concerned, Van,” Edith Wharton spoke up quickly. “That’s just the gout talking. Please, don’t look so distressed. Deacon, my friend’s leg pains him a great deal, which is why he must keep it on that little stool—it’s called a gout stool.”

“Do you plan to marry, Mr. Druken?” James said.

“I don’t—no, I suppose not.”

“Just as well. You would be twice encumbered with a wife.”

“Deacon is not an encumbrance.”

“Don’t you have any other advice for Landish, Henry?” Van asked. “Writing advice?”

“I would be grateful,” Landish said.

James sighed and adjusted his foot, wrapped in its many socks, on the chair, grimacing slightly. “All right then. Even assuming that you do have talent, you must travel. You must meet people unlike yourself. You must learn other languages if you wish to be a master of your own. Am I to take it that you only speak whatever language it is that you’re attempting now?”

“Henry!” Edith Wharton exclaimed, as Gertrude laughed.

“Well, Edith, you said yourself that you can never say you’ve read the Russians or the French if you’ve only read them in translation. Which means I have not yet read the Russians, I suppose. The best advice I can give any writer is have the good sense to be born rich.”

“I declined my inheritance,” Landish said.

“Why on earth did you do that?”

“Certain conditions were attached to it. My father wanted me to succeed him.”

“As what?”

“As him. He wanted to leave me his life so that I could go on living it after he was dead.”

“What
was
your father?”

“He was a ship’s captain. A sealing skipper. The men who served under him harvested one million seals. They caused to be built his reputation as the greatest sealer who ever lived.”

“Well.
His
memoirs might have been interesting.”

“Yes, they might have been. Though I’m sure that he would have stipulated that they not be published until after his death, owing to his eccentric disinclination to be hanged.”

“An estimable brute, I’m sure.”

“Worth writing about,” Landish said.

“Yet you have turned your back on the very people you knew best. No wonder you burn what you write. What would young Joseph Conrad write about if he had never gone to sea? Ship’s captains. First mates. Sealers. Fishermen. Have you been any of those things?”

“A sealer, I suppose, but only briefly.”

“So then.”